In 1974, Atwood was known more as a poet than a novelist. This, her sixth volume of poetry, has four sections: 'You Are Happy', 'Songs of the Transformed', 'Circe/Mud Poems', 'There is Only One of Everything.'

Many of the first group are post-breakup, sad and angry, and its final poem, the eponymous 'You Are Happy', forms a sort of half-cadence. The phrase itself turns out not to be sarcastic (well, maybe a little).

'Songs of the Transformed' is not Ovidian (like Sexton's slightly earlier 'Transformations'), they instead give the perspectives of beasts. 'Song of the Worms' is my favorite:

...
Soon we will invade like weeds, / everywhere but slowly; / the captive plants will rebel / with us, fences will topple, / brick walls ripple and fall,
there will be no more boots. / Meanwhile we eat dirt and sleep; / we are waiting / under your feet. / When we say Attack / you will hear nothing / at first.

'Circe/Mud Poems' is Ulysses as seen by Circe. The final group includes 'Is/Not', which begins:

Love is not a profession / genteel or otherwise
sex is not dentistry, / the slick filling of aches and cavities

As it happens, I read that latter couplet in a review thirty-two years ago, a review which made no impression except for that line, which stuck in my brain, unattributed, surfacing occasionally over the years, leaving me wondering its source. Thus I was startled to run across it here. I still like it, so I'd say it's stood the test of time. ( )